


Fever

by Writing-Rammstein (writingfanfic)



Category: Rammstein
Genre: Fever, Gen, Sick Character, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-17
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2019-03-20 08:44:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13714131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingfanfic/pseuds/Writing-Rammstein
Summary: For the prompt: 'Could I please have a little fic where Till gets sick and is a big baby about it, and Richard looks after him?'Ofc! Friend-fic (GOTTA BE SPECIFIC ABOUT THAT SHIP) coming up.





	Fever

“<Open your door, open your door…>”

Richard danced from foot to foot, and shook his head as he waited.

“<Or answer your phone, you great big dickhead,>” he muttered, and as if on cue, he heard the heavy bolt on the door slide back. “<Finally, Till, I’ve been standing in the hallway for five minutes…>”

What opened the door was objectively Till Lindemann, although possibly not the best representative - his face was grey, his nostrils and eyes red, his lips a sickly greyish-pink, and he clearly hadn’t shaved. Richard looked at him for a moment, and then raised his fingers in the shape of a cross.

“<Stay back,>” he warned, and Till snuffled.

“<Shut up, I’m fine,>” he croaked, and shuffled aside, allowing Richard inside; Richard hesitated, before entering the house. He wondered briefly if he should be in here without some kind of mask, and then Till ushered him up the stairs to the flat proper.

“<We were wondering… uh, why you hadn’t called today.>” Richard stopped in the hallway, and Till walked past him wordlessly to the kitchen. “<Uh… I think we can tell why, really.>”

“<Don’t be ridiculous, I’m fine, I’m just a little ill.>”

“<Oh- _kay_ …>” Richard said, and followed him in. “<…uh… so… are you coming to practise or…?>”

“<It’s not practise today.>” Till sounded as if he’d had his nose broken, which Richard had heard from first-hand experience, and he looked at him, electing not to touch anything. “<It’s Friday…>”

“<It’s… not, Till, but I think you’re going to hear what you want to,>” Richard muttered, and Till glared at him, before pointing at the tiny, slightly-grubby calendar on the kitchen surface. It showed Friday, for sure. It also showed the date as the 15th, and Richard showed Till his watch, which clearly showed _16 Samstag_. Till stared at it, before shaking his head.

“<I will be _fine_. Uh… >” He blinked a few times. “<Where are we practising today?>”

Richard leaned forward and touched Till’s forehead; Till batted at him like a cranky bear, and Richard backed away.

“<You know what? You get ready, Till, I’m going to call Paul and find out,>” he said, reassuringly, and marched back out onto the landing, dialling Paul’s number in.

“ _Guten Morgen_.”

“<Paul, he’s out of his fucking mind.>” Richard paused. “<More so than usual. He’s burning up, and he didn’t know what day it was. He’s sort of… stomping around.>”

“< _…well, fuck. Definitely can’t rehearse?_ >” Paul asked, and Richard sighed.

“<I’m not sure I could get him downstairs, Paul.>” He held his breath as Till stormed past, into the bedroom, and then cupped his hand around his mouth. “<He’s… not very happy.>”

“< _Will we have to put him down?_ >” came a yell in the background of the phone call, and Richard snorted.

“<We should be so lucky. I’m gonna try to… you know, persuade him to stay here. And… you know, make sure our lead singer doesn’t die.>” He sighed. Of course, it would be his responsibility. “<Sorry, guys. Make do, if you can.>”

“< _Now you’re both out of the way, I can be lead singer and guitarist. No arguments here_ ,>” Paul laughed. “ _Tschüss_.”

“ _Bis später._ ” Richard hung up, and looked around. Where had Till gone…? He looked into the main bedroom, and saw Till sat on the edge of the bed. He had changed t-shirts, and was now looking slightly confused.

“Where are we going?” he asked, in perfect English, and Richard nodded slowly.

“<Okay. Till, you’re clearly not well, practise is off,>” he said firmly, and Till shook his head.

“<I don’t have practise today, dipshit, it’s _Friday_ ,>” he said, and Richard nodded.

“<Splendid. Let’s just… get that fever under control.>” Till raised his hand to his forehead, and nodded slowly.

“<Rick, I’m fine.>” He shook his head. “<I’m not fine. I feel like shit but it’s… is it Saturday?>” Richard nodded. “<…fuck. Practise…>”

“<If you don’t get into the bed, I will break your legs,>” Richard said, and Till sighed, before clambering under the covers laboriously. “<Do you have a lighter cover?>”

“<No, _mom_ ,>” Till mumbled, and Richard sighed, kicking his shoes off and throwing his coat onto the chair at the desk. “<What’re you->”

“<If I leave you alone you’ll forget you live on the eighth floor, because you’re a _total wanker_. >” Richard pulled the cupboard open. “<Don’t fucking argue, there’s nothing in here you probably haven’t sodomised Flake onstage with before.>” Till grunted in annoyance, and Richard pulled out a blanket, grinning. “<Here we go.>”

“<Richard, I can… I’ll just…>”

“<Till, no offence, but if your fever’s bad enough to leave you not knowing the day of the week, I’m not leaving you alone in here. You got a thermometer?>” Richard asked, and Till sighed.

“<Kitchen. Top shelf.>” He looked small. Till had _never_ looked small. Richard sighed. Maybe he _should_ call the doctor, just in case… He pulled out his phone. Better to check the symptoms for now. “ <I don’t need to be looked after…>”

“<Okay. You forgot where we were going halfway through getting changed. Into a different t-shirt. Get out from under that duvet, it’s not snowing.>” Till did so, and Richard threw the blanket over him. “<I did none of this. If anyone asks, I hate you and I strive only to replace you in this band.>”

“<Understood.>” Till smiled. “<I am grateful.>”

“<Better be.>” Richard made his way into the kitchen, and grabbed a glass of water and the thermometer, before making his way back in. “<Drink this.>”

“<Is it poisoned?>” Till asked, a sad smile on his face, and Richard rolled his eyes.

“<I wish. Just drink it. Can you take your temperature?>” he asked, a little sarcastically, and Till snatched up the thermometer. “<Go nuts.>” It was one of the lowest-tech things he could imagine - a thin strip of plastic that used skin temperature - but it showed him that Till was probably going to live, and he text Paul as much, with a  


End file.
